Happy New Year, everyone!
And here I am, joining the ranks of many fanfic authors who are pretty sure that Marc developed a phobia of rain and/or thunderstorms after the Cave Incident and Randall's death. Expect lots of angst and fluff.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'Moon Knight', or any of its characters.
WORD COUNT: 2,903
One – Wendy
1991
At first, she thought it was the rumble of thunder that woke her. Wendy had been a heavy sleeper in her youth, but ever since she became a mother, she had become a lot more sensitive to noises in the night. However, it was usually high-pitched noises, such as the cry of a child-
A whimpering noise coming from down the hall caught her attention. Ah. Perhaps that was what had woken her.
She glanced over at her husband, but Elias was still fast asleep. So, with a sigh, Wendy slowly eased out of bed, taking a moment to steady herself, as her nine-month pregnant belly had been wreaking havoc on her balancing skills.
Wendy waddled out of the room and down the hallway to Marc's bedroom, and sighed fondly but sadly at the sight of the tiny, shivering lump under the blankets. "Oh, Pumpkin…" She crossed the room and sat down on the bed. Almost immediately, her four-year-old son emerged from his blanket cocoon and promptly latched onto her, his entire body shaking. Wendy took him in her arms and held him tight. "It's okay. You're okay."
"I don' like it," Marc whimpered, "Make it go 'way."
"Shh… It'll all be over soon. Do you know what thunder is? It's just angels bowling. They're playing a game. A very loud game."
Marc relaxed a little, only to jump again when another thunderclap sounded.
Wendy sighed. She was so tired, and she wanted to go back to sleep. She wouldn't leave her boy while he was so scared, but she prayed that the storm would end soon. Of course, all this movement seemed to have woken the baby inside her, as it started kicking at the side of her belly.
"You know, you're gonna be a big brother, soon. You'll need to be brave to look after the new baby. Can you do that for me, Pumpkin? Can you promise?"
Marc sniffled, his bottom lip trembling. Then he reached out and pressed his hand against her belly. Wendy guided his hand over to the place where the baby was kicking. His little face grew solemn when he felt the pressure against his palm, and he looked back up at her with wide, innocent eyes. "I pwomise, Mama."
Two – Randall
1995
Marc didn't really like thunderstorms. He wouldn't admit that he was afraid, or anything. He was eight whole years old! But he still didn't like them. They were too loud, and they made it hard to sleep. He stayed awake at night, his blanket tucked around him, as he stared at his 'Tomb Busters' poster.
'When danger is near, Steven Grant has no fear.'
He had to be like Dr. Grant, brave and confident even when everything around him was scary and dangerous. If Dr. Grant could do that when something dangerous was happening, then Marc could be brave when there was thunder, which wasn't really dangerous, at all.
"Mommy?" Randall's voice came from down the hall. "Daddy?"
He sounded scared. Like he was going to start crying.
And Mom and Dad weren't coming. Even with the wind and rain and thunder outside, Marc should still be able to hear someone moving in his parents' room, or the squeak of the floorboards as one of them got out of bed.
Lightning lit up his room, and another crack of thunder sounded.
Randall started sobbing.
'You have to look after your baby brother, Marc,' Mom's voice said inside his head.
Marc got up, even though it was cold outside his blankets, and ran down the hall. Randall was sitting up in his bed. He had his own blankets over him like a suit of armour, and he was hugging his favourite teddy bear. Marc didn't even hesitate. He just kept going and got into bed with his little brother and hugged him.
"It's okay," Marc told him, "It's just angels bowling. That's what Mom says. They're just playing a very loud game."
"I don't like it," Randall whimpered. He kept the teddy stuck under one arm, but he used the other arm to hug Marc back and bury his face in his brother's chest.
"That's okay," Marc assured him, "It's okay to be scared when you're little like you are." He got an idea. "How about we play our own game? We can pretend we're Doctor Grant and Rosser, waiting out the storm. They wouldn't be scared, so we can pretend we're not scared. What do you think?"
Randall looked up, and gave him a small, shy smile and a nod.
Three – Elias
1999
Elias already knew what he was going to find when he entered his son's room: the blankets strewn to the side of the bed, spilling onto the floor, either in the opposite direction from his son as he'd tossed them aside, or streaming towards him, if they'd gotten tangled around his legs as he scrambled toward the corner. And of course twelve-year-old Marc, jammed into the aforementioned corner with his hands clamped over his ears and his eyes wide as he attempted to keep his breathing under control.
Elias still remembered the first thunderstorm after Randall's death. How the sound of the rain hitting the windowpanes had caused his son to drop what he was holding and start hyperventilating. Wendy had scoffed, declaring he was just doing it for attention, and left to go get another drink, saying the storm had reminded her of the day her baby was taken from her. Elias had sat with his surviving son and held him, awkwardly trying to coach him through his breathing, until the storm had passed.
(Later, Wendy had confronted him, incensed that he would choose to comfort Marc instead of his grieving wife.)
Now, a few years later, they had worked out how to deal with the storms a little better. Marc had found that having something drown out the sound helped, whether it was music playing on his headphones or sitting next to the dryer while it was running. However, the headphones had been broken in an accident last week, and Wendy was currently in the living room, meaning that Marc would have to pass her to get to the laundry room, and he wasn't willing to do that. It frustrated Elias to some degree, but mostly, it broke his heart that the two most important people remaining in his life were still so at odds with each other.
But that wasn't important right now. Instead, he slipped into the room, noting how Marc's eyes had instantly darted to him when he entered the doorway. He knelt down at his son's side, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey," he murmured, "How are you doing?"
"I- I'm fine," Marc lied, as Elias expected.
"No, you're not. But are you okay enough to stay on your own while I get make cocoa?"
Marc sniffled, then nodded.
Elias leaned forward and kissed his son on the forehead, making the pre-teen bristle with adolescent indignation, and then swiftly left.
He went downstairs, passing Wendy where she was watching some infomercial with a dead-eyed stare and a drink in hand. Once he got Marc situated, Elias would tend to her, as well. They both needed help in times like these.
When he returned to Marc's room, minutes later, mugs of cocoa in hand, it was to a very different sight. Instead of huddling in the corner, Marc was back in bed, lying on his back with his arms folded behind his head and counting softly under his breath. He only stopped when the thunder rumbled once more. A small smile formed on his lips. "Twelve miles," he murmured.
Elias blinked at the drastic change, but decided to be relieved about it rather than questioning it. He stepped into the room, crossing the floor to sit on the edge of the bed. "Here," he offered, holding one mug out to his son, "Fresh cocoa, made just how you like it."
"Really?" Marc shot up with a smile on his face. "Thanks!"
(Was it just Elias's imagination, or was that a British accent he heard?)
Four – Layla
2024
Layla El-Faouly was well aware of the fact that her husband came with a lot of scars and emotional baggage. He rarely talked about it – outright refused to, most of the time – but it was plain to see for anyone who bothered to look closely. The old scars on his back, the way he flinched when she raised a hand after raising her voice during an argument, the countless times he shook and cried in his sleep… They all painted a blurry but no less distressing picture of his past.
So, Layla hit the books. Or rather, Google. She looked up everything she could on child abuse survivors and PTSD, and tried to modify some of her behaviours to try and make life in their home more comfortable for Marc. She did her best to not startle him or approach him from behind, to be mindful of how she spoke to him, and what seemed more likely to set him off so that she could avoid it later.
Of course, there was only so much that Google could help her with when Marc wouldn't talk to her. She tried not to press too hard, but it seemed like any mention of his past caused her husband to clam up.
One night, however, was particularly bad.
Layla was awoken by a terrifying crash, followed quickly by a loud scream. She opened her eyes and sat bolt upright in bed, just in time to see another flash of lightning outside their apartment window, followed swiftly by the boom of thunder.
A flurry of movement out of the corner of her eye drew Layla's attention to the right side of the bed, where Marc was scrambling out with a distinct lack of his usual grace and control. He tumbled to the floor, gasping for air, and pressing his hands over his ears.
"Marc!" Layla slid out of bed, only remembering at the last minute the whole 'don't approach from behind' thing. She circled around the bed, instead, coming towards him from an angle at which he could see her coming.
What she saw in the dim light of the streetlamps outside their window broke her heart. Marc's eyes were screwed tightly shut, but the tears were still spilling freely down his face.
"Oh, Marc…" Slowly, Layla approached her husband and sat down beside him. She carefully reached out and touched his shoulder, which caused him to jump a bit. His eyes finally opened, and Layla was taken aback by the sheer terror in them.
"L-Lay-" He could barely even speak.
"Shh… It's okay." Layla cautiously wound her arm over her husband's shoulders. "I'm right here."
Marc didn't resist her arm, but he didn't lean into her embrace, either. Instead, he curled further into himself, struggling to keep his breathing even. Layla didn't push him to talk just yet, and simply sat next to him and rubbed his back. The soothing circles of pressure seemed to be helping, or at least she hoped they were.
Later, after the storm had passed and the sun was up, Layla tried to get him to talk about what had happened that night.
It did not go as planned.
"Look, I told you, I don't want to talk about it!" Marc snapped. He stormed over to their closet, wrenching it open and grabbing his jacket while jamming his feet into his boots. "I'm going for a walk. I'll pick up takeout for lunch on the way back."
"Marc-"
The door slammed behind her husband before Layla could get more than his name out of her mouth. Left alone in the otherwise empty apartment, she sighed in frustration.
Why couldn't he trust her enough to let her in?
Five – Steven
2025
Steven Grant loved thunderstorms. He enjoyed watching the lightning flash across the sky, feeling the rumble of the thunder in his bones. The sound of rain drumming on a roof above his head was also considered a pleasant, calming sound to his ears. Oh, he knew that not everyone felt the same way, but nevertheless, during a storm, Steven could often be found watching the sky and counting the seconds between the lightning and the thunder.
He did not expect Marc Spector, the little American man sharing a body with him, to be one of those who felt the opposite. Nor did he expect Marc to feel it so strongly. But then, given their experiences in the Duat, and what Steven saw of Marc's part of their shared past, it shouldn't have been such a shocker.
Still, he certainly wasn't expecting to be shoved to the front after a long day of work, suddenly finding himself in the driver's seat of a body that was currently breathing like it had just sprinted an entire marathon, with a pounding heartbeat to match. It took him quite a few minutes to get the body calmed down, and as he did so, Steven was on the lookout for what could have stressed Marc out so badly.
They were kneeling on the floor in their flat, and they were alone. The telly and radio were off, the doors and windows were all shut. The only sound apart from their harsh breathing and hammering heart was the admittedly loud drumming of rain on the roof and sweet old Mrs. Cavanaugh's ancient vacuum cleaner running in the flat below. There was nothing that Steven could see or hear that might send the ex-Marine into such a state, and yet here he was, literally on their knees with adrenaline flowing through their shared body.
Once he finally had things under control, Steven shakily stood up. He glanced over at the nearest reflective surface – the fishtank holding Gus 2.0 and his new tankmate – hoping for some answers. "Marc?" he asked hesitantly, "Is everything alright?"
For several seconds, only his own reflection stared back at him.
"Marc?"
There was a shift, and the reflected face changed expressions, gaining a tense, haunted look. "I'm sorry," Marc apologised, "Didn't mean to dump all that on you. You've had a long day, you can get some rest. I'll take over the body."
"Here now, hang on!" Steven protested, "What bloody hell was that?!"
"It's nothing, Steven, Just-"
"It is not bloody well nothing, Marc Spector! I thought we done hiding things from each other!"
(And of course, by 'we', he meant 'you', and by 'each other', he meant 'me', because Steven liked to think himself an open book to Marc.)
Marc's haunted expression grew even more so. "It's- It's not something I like to admit…"
Rain lashed against the windows from a particularly strong gust of wind, and Marc's reflection winced, flickering momentarily back to Steven's before returning, as if Marc had briefly retreated from the sound.
And then Steven understood.
"Marc…"
He remembered their time in the Duat. He remembered following the spectres of Marc's younger self and Randall into the cave, and trying to save them as the floodwaters rose around him.
"It's the storm, isn't it?" he asked softly, "It reminds you of the cave, doesn't it?"
Marc nodded, refusing to meet Steven's eyes. "It's stupid, I know," he grumbled, "A grown man who can't handle a little thunder…"
"It's not stupid," Steven insisted, "You went though something horrible, and this memory brings you back to that day. It's nothing to be ashamed of, Marc."
Marc didn't look convinced.
"Alright, then." He got up, wincing as his knees protested after what had presumably been a hard landing, and made his way over to the desk. "Look, if you don't want to have the body until the storm's gone, that's perfectly alright. Just…" He rifled through the desk until he found the box he was looking for.
You see, until recently, the flat next door had been occupied by a rather irritating aspiring musician who liked to practice his drumming in the ungodly hours of the morning. Said musician had eventually been kicked out after complaints from Steven and the other tenants, but not before Steven had gone and blown most of his bi-weekly paycheque on a set of noise-cancelling headphones. Since the source of the noise had been banished before he'd gotten a chance to use them, the headphones had sat in their box in a desk drawer.
Now, however, Steven unboxed them, plugged them into his laptop, and pulled up his favourite streaming service, switching over to Marc's profile on their shared account. "Now, what would you like to watch?"
Marc's reflection, now in the reflective surface of the brass tableside lamp, blinked in shock. "Steven…"
"This was supposed to be your time in the body, yeah? Pick a film."
After a few more protests, Marc relented. The streaming service didn't have 'Tomb Busters', but 'Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Last Ark' made a good substitute. The two alters both enjoyed the movie, even if Marc couldn't help pointing out all the impossibilities in the stunts and Steven couldn't help moaning at the inaccuracies of the Ancient Egyptian sets. Even as the storm passed and Steven surrendered control of the body so that he could get some rest, their good mood remained.
"Steven?" Marc asked as he felt his headmate's consciousness starting to fade.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
THE END
So, over the course of the story we have Wendy starting off as a good mom, but already putting the responsibility of taking care of Randall on Marc at a young age. We have Marc being a good brother regardless. We have Elias still deluding himself into thinking that his wife can get better, and they can go back to normal someday. We have Layla doing her best to support Marc and getting frustrated when he shuts her out as per usual. And finally, we have Steven being an absolute sweetheart when he realises just how much pain his headmate is in.
